Nora wipes the back of her hand across tiny beads of sweat on her forehead.
Effects of the cold winter, dry and brown, litter the lawn in front of the flower bed where she stands sweating in the early afternoon sun.
She could remove the flannel shirt she wears over her t-shirt but ghosts of winter still haunt shaded areas of the flower bed.
The last of the cold weather has passed but warmth visits only for short periods during the day. In another week everything will be different but this is the not-still-winter-and-not-yet-spring time.
As she takes a pair of shears from the bucket with the rest of her garden tools she thinks about this time between cold and warm, between hibernation and growth, between what was and what will be and wonders which of the plants will survive and which will need to be replaced.
The dry cracking of the branch between the blades of her shears tells her all she needs to know.
"...ghosts of winter still haunt shaded areas of the flower bed" is a masterpiece of descriptive writing.
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